13 November 2008

“I insist!”, she said.

“Insist, what!?”, I rolled down the window and smelled steam, rubber, road and rain. “Just a perfect day… Feed animals in the zoo. Then later a movie too, and then home…”

I was working for a small hedge fund then, something or other capital. They sent me on vacation because I was making too much money. She was a day trader… One way ticket, yeah. It took me so long to find out, and I found out.

It was a black BMW 507 TS. 1958. I could tell one of the tires was about to go. She was steering like a storm. Sweet oxblood leather smelled like a crate of Habanitos. Her hair smelled like guava. Guava and patchouli. Patchouli and musk. Musk and honey. Honey and Tiare. Tiare and pear.

“Left…Left Rear”, I thought to myself and braced for the inevitable. Cocked the rearview down so I could watch her pearls in the screaming breeze.

Didn’t care, I was with her. Surely I could think of worse ways to go. Barreling down the neon green East Sussex hills with my baby? I was fine with that.

Roaring down now. Beige cassette blasting. The hills were alive with the sound of Zevon's “Stand in the Fire”.

We were on our way back from Henry Hardenbergh’s. My breath smelled like cinsault and cigarettes. The rain was coming down hard now. Just me, her, the rain and the M25 orbital. The motorway of dreams; the great equalizer.